


Seven Silver Locks

by moon_hedgehog



Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic), The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bluebeard Fusion, Fairy Tale Retellings, Feminization, Gore, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Symbolism, kind of, some chekhov's guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: Perhaps Edward has wed a man with too many secrets behind closed doors, but then again, his own still leave traces of crimson-red roses.
Relationships: Edward Hyde/Dr. Henry Jekyll
Comments: 2
Kudos: 108





	1. destroy with a sweet kiss

**Author's Note:**

> everything here is symbolic or/and a reference to various Bluebeard retellings (except names in ch.2 for they're taken from JH adaptations)  
>  **or**  
>  moon rewatched crimson peak to the point of going absolutely insane and this was born.
> 
> [[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyZvWBFbIRw) • [[x]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9DKJqvBGNdQ)

Mother plants roses in the garden – those soft pink ones, like a blush of a maiden's cheek, and every morning Edward opens the window of his room wide to let in a delicate aroma. It is like perfumery his father makes in a small family factory; the town's aristocracy is ready to gnaw through each other's throats in an attempt to take hold of secret recipes of its production. Perhaps that was it that led their previously modest, content with life's little things family into the gilded gates of an upper world: with high ceilings, marble floors, and leather upholstery of armchairs near the fireplace. The simplicity of temper, however, Hyde's family lost not – and even now, indulging in sleep in a bed with silk sheets and at dawn washing up with water diluted with oil in a polished pearl sink, Edward twirls mother's teachings on his tongue. Do not take excesses, listen to your elders, and spend gold wisely. Amuse in your youth while it lasts, but never forget it is fleeting; and innocence – both body's and soul's – value more than crowns and titles, for once given to a wrong person, it will not return. All this Hyde absorbed with milk and over time has grown into a delicately built, soft-haired, and bright-eyed young man. His kind heart's been of rumors and talks, and an evil eye, barely having rushed to him, mollified and lost all ability to do harm. The only gloomy page of his life has been forgotten so soon it seemed to outsiders it never existed. Not ever been there those who dared to denigrate his name – both in public and in absence – and his family is appreciated and respected almost as if they had been born in high circles, having spent their whole lives in palaces and mansions. A beautiful youthful boy – all that is whispered about Hyde as soon as he appears on the threshold, blooming and shining like spring's day – a boy who weaves roses in his hair and dances in light clothes.

Right now late autumn's rushing through the streets, sneaking, entailing the season of lavish balls and luxurious parties, and in each – without exception – house dance boys and girls, with joy fantasizing about their fates. Their parents look for best craftsmen, buying expensive dresses and sophisticated suits and first-class brooches and earrings, for offsprings' amusement. After all, each – without exception – house knows that balls and parties and receptions are the best opportunity to match, finally, your child and wipe away the tears at their wedding, looking forward to grandchildren and thereby preserved bloodline. Could not omit such fever the Hydes, too; in their estate has conceived the same commotion that shows its face barely anyone in a family prepares to get married. Here it's been too early to talk about marriage, of course, but mother and father of young Edward are people practical – not pushing and not restricting the freedom of their only child, they, at the same time, advise him to plan a life beforehand. In their opinion, he – in nature tender and romantic – may not hurry with any kind of choice, yet to start looking at the candidates on hand and heart would still be worth it. Edward himself has not been burdened by own loneliness. Yes, he folds sheets of colored paper into elegant valentines, performs melodies of love on his mother's harp, and giggles in his palm at the sight of a couple stealing from one another kisses. But with all this, he's never once felt interested in a single person, keeping to cherish his heart behind seven silver locks. His parents' words worry him, though, for he is used listening to them – and therefore, with a slight nod of a head he accepts their offer to attend several autumn events, in order to have fun and look at youth's wooing, and search for a chosen one, on a very good concatenation of circumstances.

Yet only getting into the carriage, he thinks not at all about events, youth, and potential chosen ones – he thinks about the smell of soft pink roses that's clung to his neck like an easy, elusive trail.

A glass of wine in his thin fingers splashes white while Edward casts a curious glance at the ballroom's decoration. Pious Lanyon family kindly invited them to a feast, with also a good half of nobility – pimped men here been hiding in the corners, ruddy ladies frolicking around the tables with snacks. Himself he's dressed simply – in a white shirt embroidered with poppy blood and fitted pants with a gold belt; in his hair, as always, flowers, and those passing by whisper about his appearance. While his parents dignifiedly talk with the house's owner at an edge of a wide staircase, he steps aside and gets caught by two young girls who titter and scatter compliments. As a potential partner, even in a dance, they perceive him not; as one of them – very much yes, and therefore a courteous conversation quite quickly comes down to the latest gossips in which Edward, however, has little interest, but politely listens all the same.

“Ah but have you heard that old Lanyon plans to marry off his son to the Count that's coming to today's banquet?” one of them asks, it seems, Emma.

“Yes, yes!” enthusiastically exclaims the second whose name is Lucy. “Just to think what's this old man up to. Would there be any demand for his son at all? He's so rude and gloomy, excuse moi.”

Hyde is taught not to form opinions over people on the first and second impression – but here it is difficult to disagree. Robert Lanyon, the heir to his glorious name, is an unpleasant young man, if not to say of disgusting character. Curious ears and dexterous mouths compose ballads and tales about his intimate adventures, and of his disagreements with father knows almost every town's resident. Despite this, he and Robert once miraculously managed to find a common language: and although it's been hard to call friendship, some kind of communication tongue still turned. Mate's eternal quips and his desire for competition, Edward accepts with the patience of an angel – which, in the opinion of many, he is. Now, catching a glimpse of young Lanyon's shaggy light-brown hair afar, he waves a friendly hand, against snorts of the girls behind. Robert answers with only a cursory, measuring peek – himself he looks much more elegant and rich, in dark-purple jerkin with gold tassels, high heeled. Frivolities like fresh flowers and a fraction of delicate blush, this man would not allow; among the rest, all this is forgiven to Edward only for the purity of his temper. Yes, he has little interest in gossips, still on the next Emma's words suddenly realizes he is hooked.

“Anyway, enough talk about Robert,” she giggles, covering with a palm. “Just listen to what they say about the Count that will visit us. One truly dark story.”

“Like what?” the boy interests, much to amuse of his companions who wave their hands and beg to be silent, so as not to burst out laughing near everyone else.

After two glasses of berry punch, both temptresses take him to a corner and whisper conspiratorially:

“I heard from my old mama Carew – you know she never lies – as if all the Count's previous wives and husbands...” Emma takes a pause, darkened by the shadow of an antique column standing above them, and bites her lip. “Went missing.”

“Yes,” picks up Lucy. “Disappeared and never were found. There are various rumors, bad rumors. Some argue all this is just a coincidence,” she casts a glance to her friend, as though passing the flame of primacy on to her, and so the latter easily continues:

“Some think misfortune follows him on heels. And some...”

At once, in the air thickens an intermission, like clouds ready to break into a thunderstorm. Without noticing it, Hyde flinches, preparing for a bolt of lightning that will strike straight into a dry tree in front of him. His fingers instinctively reach for a shirt sleeve and glide along embroidered flowers, his breath slips. He knows, this – is the culmination of a story, and culminations always cause him to tremble.

“Some say the Count killed them all,” Lucy finishes sharply, yanking her long, dark curl.

“People say a lot of things.”

“Of course,” the girl agrees with him. “They also say he's as beautiful as the Devil himself, and if being married to the Devil would worth my life – I'll gladly agree to such escapade.”

Emma chortles and shoves her friend with an elbow, and the next minute bright confetti flies up over their heads, and Edward turns to the exit. The reception has officially begun and pair by pair, visitors gather in the hall's center, waiting for musicians and special guests. Robert finally departs from his dignified father, winding through the crowd and endowing that magnificent smile of his. Here he is like a fox in a henhouse, similarly witty and observant; and Hyde hurries to keep him company, leaving the tattling girls behind. At a little distance, he notices his parents – following the example of some elders, they have left their child to frolic among all, watching the action from the shadows. Their time to dance has long passed, and yet they find solace in a waltzing, laughing and merrymaking new generation; Edward knows they are unlikely to see him, but still nods to the Hydes with love and gratitude. Lanyon he reaches almost near the front door, at a wide portrait of his family. The violet eyes of his deceased mother gently look at the two young men while they exchange greetings in a familiar, friendly, and slightly rival manner.

“Today you are more beautiful than ever, darling,” the fawn-haired hums sarcastically, throwing an equally contemptuous look at his companion's exterior.

“And I've heard you are expecting someone special today,” Edward peacefully answers, with all the stamina of a person verbally untouched. Blush flashes on his cheeks at the memory of a gossip that was shared with him, but nevertheless, he speaks it out loud: “Are you aware of what they say about him?”

“What? That he's a murderer? Count with bloody eyes? Yes, indeed.”

Seems like this doesn't wound Robert one iota – on his face same blissful arrogance so characteristic of people of his status and wealth. Or, cold-blooded heirs of this wealth.

Hyde gasps, though – he's never possessed such composure, and therefore the reaction of his interlocutor is completely alien to him.

“Does not it bother you? But Robert...” he begins, stammering in the middle, unable to find a continuation.

His interlocutor just rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, as like this conversation, not having had time to really begin, has already tired him. At these moments, Edward brightly feels the difference in their age and upbringing, and it – is insurmountable, and therefore the very fact of their bond seems even more strange. But it would be rather fun if mother and father were to suddenly decide to wed off their son precisely to Lanyon's progeny – he thinks out of the blue and puffs into his glass of punch. That “progeny” gives him a sly, jokey look and catches the mood in the air at a go:

“You're also planned to be espoused, am I right? I bet the Hydes sleep and see how you step under the altar arches with a bouquet in hands and a veil on head.” Edward rolls his eyes but blushes again. “So when? And who's the unfortunate one agreeing to take you after that sweet incident?”

“Ah stop throwing at me questions! They just told to take a closer look at the options, that is all. I'm not marrying anyone.”

“Yet...” Robert ends. “And 'yet' is a very short period of time, darling. But fine. Take a closer look all you like. And be sure to invite to the wedding once you decide.”

“Fuff,” Edward purrs, smiling. After a while, his glass empties and he sets it aside, singing a quiet melody undernose. When it merges with the sound of rain behind the tall windows, he looks up. It's getting dark outside; the moon throws a long and narrow path of light on the pavement in front of the mansion, and right on it stops an elegant carriage. From blackness it is almost indistinguishable, fusing with the night – sparkle only rubies on doors and eyes of a thoroughbred horse, exhaling heat from its nostrils. Around that carriage scurry servants and, probably, some guests – when Hyde realizes one of them is the master of the house, he bites his lip and retreats inside. However, stands he too close to the gates, and therefore only manages to slide to Robert before they open wide and let in, in, in – both servants and guests and newcomers. Newcomer.

His fur coat is stabbed with a neat brooch that shines with seven pomegranate seeds. A cylinder from his head is decorated with a thin ribbon and swiftly goes after the coat – to dry out. His hair is the color of burnt autumn fire, cheekbones sharp like blades; his suit differs with simplicity but noticeable grooming and, likely, costliness. His wrists whiten with prominent bones, hands taking off leather gloves, long legs shod in lacquered black boots. In all his features captures something of an aristocratic bloodline, and at the same time about his position and fortune, this man clearly brags not. When Edward realizes he's been staring at him for five great minutes, catches the eye of the mysterious visitor in response. It glides over him like molasses, sneaking into his throat and chaining his breath.

From the ballroom's stuffiness, his cheeks suddenly flash like two blossoming flowers.

With a confident gait, Mr. Lanyon leads the stranger straight to them and Edward barely finds the strength to turn away modestly.

“Father!” Robert exclaims full of fake enthusiasm, looking from his parent to the comer. “What guests you invite to our house! Don't keep all waiting, introduce us.”

Elder Lanyon frowns, but cannot scold his son before prying eyes, and reluctantly submits to his will—

“Lord Jekyll, let me introduce my son Robert” —and reaches out a palm in a snow-white glove. “Robert – Count Henry Jekyll.”

Edward can't hold up – raises his eyes only to once more impolitely peep at the Count. _Count,_ _C_ _ount_. A shadow of a smile slithers across his face as he shakes hands with younger Lanyon; but in the depths of that smile hides nothing but suffocating darkness. Like a whirlpool that lures pitiable fishermen into its depths, the lines of his face drag along – Edward wakes up only when he is asked a direct, simple question. The second time.

“And what is your name, sir?”

Question comes from the Count's mouth.

The golden-haired boy is lost, absurdly re-asking right after:

“My?” with shoulder feeling Robert's intense irritation.

This time, Count's smile dazzles – for a split second all the light of crystal chandeliers and the joyous people and the flowing rivers of champagne and punch cease to exist; the world around gets swallowed by the night of those raging outside, and everything young Hyde can grasp at is just one simple smile.

It is encouraging, confirming.

“Edward. Edward Hyde.”

“Meeting you is the most beautiful thing that has happened to me today, Mister Hyde.”

The growing tension – and, what to hide, Edward's seething embarrassment – is broken by a delicate song of a violin, and guests turn around at its sound, exchanging delighted exclamations. Finally, the musicians have arrived! While tuning instruments and stamping feet to the beat, very soon they awaken the first couple to entwine arms and dance. In the beginning, the music goes for a riotous Irish jig, followed by a slow French rhythm, descending into a dark, strict waltz. It is unusual – Edward has never heard it, and even more he is amazed when the mysterious visitor bows before him, holding out a hand.

“Care for a dance, Mr. Hyde?”

He wants to cry out – who, me?! - wants to refuse, scaredly folding arms over his chest; instead, nods, accepting the offer with the meekness of a lamb led to the slaughter.

On Robert he looks not.

Count Jekyll's palm is surprisingly hot. Warm marble.

Edward rolls his name on his tongue – _Henry, Henry, Henry_ – and bites his lip.

Count with bloody eyes. In them seven sparks of fire.

“You are rather silent.”

“Beside you I do not even know what to say.”

Quiet laughter.

“Anything.”

Notes slide off the sheets, hit hard over the floor like cannonballs. Too many looks are turned on them.

“I thought you'd desire to dance with Robert.”

A silly, silly boy.

“But I desired to dance with you.”

And a way too dangerous man.

Edward turns when the world in front of him staggers, almost stumbles; even so, partner's hands support him. All in fragments and splinters. He will remember it the same.

“I don't bite.”

 _Lie_.

Can he?

“You're too much.”

When waltz melody comes to a finish, Edward is led out onto a veranda. The rain ended fast. His hair is touched, flowers ripped away – his lips are covered with a deep kiss. He trembles feelings mixed, pressing into the insistent guest. _There will be more, there will be more_ : knocks in his head until night dissolves in the dawn.

Towards the end of that autumnal season, Edward is already betrothed. He spins around all the possible mirrors of his house and only so and does that nervously straightens woven into his hair lilies – the rarest kind from Emma's garden. Tonight will occur his wedding; and before it there were long, honeyed days of walking hand in hand and slow kisses; days in which Count Jekyll has been given one of the keys of seven silver locks of Edward's heart. He’s accepted this gift with honor, liability, bowed head – and also, a smile of a wild beast, intoxicated by prey's proximity. But at his age it is excusable – mother hastened to assure young Hyde, embroidering a handkerchief-present for his then unplanned wedding with gold threads. After all, a man in the prime of his life, in addition to other things – spiritual and religious – firstly thinks about the desires of his body. And her golden-haired son arouses these desires all right. Hearing this, knowing this, Edward feels weird. Truth, he's often been an object of someone else's lust, whether it came from men or women; only not once before has he experienced this desire himself. Now, at Count's sight, a tight knot twists in the bottom of his abdomen every time, a tingle rising up to chest – he's not sure it is what other folks experience, but for all the years of his life, it is something. Something he can't explain and something for what he's looking a way out.

It was decided to celebrate the wedding on the last day of leaf-fall – and now this day extends with white ribbons and sheeted tables outside the window of his room, and taking his last deep breath, Edward comes out to meet it. He insisted on a frugal ceremony, devoid of pomp and luxury. No need to draw the attention of strangers. No, have gathered here only those who the Hydes know personally – among them is the Carew family, wiping tears from cheeks time to time; Lucy in a long dress that would put the nonexistent bride to shame; and even Hastie Lanyon with his son. On the way to the aisle, Edward is trying to catch his gaze, but it's looking straight ahead and impenetrable no worse than of an antique doll: Robert's never forgiven him an involuntary theft of own future. It wounds like a dagger under the ribs, but at the same time, Hyde is sacredly sure he has nothing to apologize for, for neither the Count nor Robert has ever been bound by any of those promises careless couples entrust each other as the Lord's word. Therefore, he glides on, on and now meets his bridegroom, dressed in white and scarlet, with a priest and rings on a velvet pillow. The lace of his sleeves trembles in the wind when one of these rings gets put on his finger – made of white gold, diamonds, and rubies, with carving it speaks of endless love that conquers death and swallows pain. This is _more_ : Edward thinks, looking at it and for some reason feeling in his throat a lump of doubt. _But this is not all_ : although this thought falls out of his mind barely hot lips of his husband pull into a cautious, prim and proper for the eyes of those around them kiss.

It is what he read about in books of brave knights and languishing, locked up princesses. At the feast that follows, he gazes only at his spouse, studying every line of his face. Here are sharp cheekbones and jaws, white like two sides of the moon; here is a straight-drawn nose, as graceful as if a sculptor's knife has passed over it. A pale scarlet mouth stretching into a smile like a fluttering butterfly, sharp teeth. Here are thin, amber eyebrows in tone with hair that catches and hides in itself the rays of the peering sun. Here are those eyes of rumors and gossips, their neat cut and bewitching depth. Like bunches of ripe pomegranate, now they're dancing from one guest to another – impervious and frightening as always. When they turn to Edward, he feels his heart in a desperate attempt to hop out of his chest, his breath as only a fleeting shard of a moment. Involuntarily, he bites his lip. The eyes opposite darken at once, like a sky before a storm, although on the face of their master still plays a slight smile.

At long last, when fun and chatter become too tiring and the Hyde family, and the Carew family, and the Lanyon family, and other guests get up from their seats and shake hands; when the sound of perky wedding music subsides, and the dishes come down to empty plates and drunk glasses; when laughing, his husband invites Edward to spend some time at his villatic estate first, for his castle is not yet ready to receive such an important guest – then Edward says yes. And hastens to ask: will you stay with me, beloved? And if not, can I take my friends to your estate as well, so as not to wilt alone? The Count answers negatively to the first and affirmatively to the second. For Hyde, both of these answers are more than appropriate, for the mere thought of an upcoming first wedding night makes his members tremble. He's not tempted by the illusion that in a fit of their passion, husbands of young and beautiful ones often inflict pain, leaving its traces in the morning. No matter how much he trusts this man, and no matter how thoroughly his mother prepared him for all the intricacies of intimate life, he is still very tender and inexperienced, and out of that inexperience shy, too. But his red-eyed spouse gives him only one more restrained kiss and climbs into a carriage, black as night itself, waving goodbye with his thin palm. Exactly the same carriage waits for Edward – but before, he addresses the dispersing guests.

Lucy accepts the offer right away. Emma begs off her mother with glowing like stars eyes and almost dances on spot, with all the pleasure ready to visit one of Count's properties. When the blond finally finds Robert, he drinks – apparently not the first – a glass of wine and wrinkles from the tart taste of grapes, corroding his tongue. His eyes shine in a fever and the look he casts at his friend doesn't bode well.

“Oh, are you really offering me to go to the Count's sweet little house, hmm? With Lucy and Emma? Have a picnic there?” he taunts. “Or maybe a _sleepover_?”

“Why must you say such things?” Edward asks voice shaky, swaying his head. For a split second it seems to him the mask of dear Lanyon cracks, for his face distorts a grimace of guilt for what has been said – but it glues together yet again.

“Why must you listen?” he cuts, setting the glass on the table with a wave of a fuzzy hand. “Everyone knows who you are. Everyone but your precious husband. Do you think I should tell him?”

Gasping in pain and resentment, the young man takes a step back. The gap between him and his past suddenly seems horrendous, insurmountable – one of the pieces of his life is chipping off right now. One needs to laugh at their wedding, but Hyde feels ready to shed tears. Stubbornly, he blinks them away with long eyelashes and straightens his shoulders.

“Do not you dare. If you tell him anything, this will be the end of our friendship, Robert.”

And – without wasting more time looking back, without fixing lilies woven into his hair and only giving one last soft smile to his parents, Edward and his companions get into the carriage, which in an instant rushes them along the rolled road toward a small, cozy estate.

That estate is entwined with ivy, but inside smells of oversea spices, and the shelves of its walls are covered in a gray layer of dust, even despite an old governess living here. In a room that so much resembles a hunting lodge and stands out from the rest with a painted ceiling and a wide balcony, Edward finds himself a haven for the next week. Every its' day flows slowly, like the water of a forest stream: all that needs to be taken care of here is reading novels by the fireplace and walks through – albeit not great but worthy – the nearby territories. Also – gossips that Emma and Lucy weave before him like a thin web, in a desire to pass the days and give free rein to tongues. Mostly babble about the Count – he is now Edward's full-fledged spouse, which means talking about him isn't indecent at all anymore; regardless that the Hydes have refused to change their last name on his. Three of them enthusiastically discuss his possessions, business, and, of course, all kinds of secrets hidden in his ruby eyes. Oftentimes switch to news from home – such as the return of Simon Stride into secular circles, or the death of Mrs. Utterson's cat. By the third day, however, the estate reach news rather gloomy. In the capital was murdered a young girl – by appearance and typical sagging breasts, a prostitute – and police officers slip off their feet, trying to tie her death to the series of murders which over the years have taken place throughout the country in a similar manner of execution.

Above their little shelter hangs a black haze of that alarming mood coming only after the happenings you'd most like to prevent, but have no power over. In front of a gilded mirror in his room, Edward turns his face this side and that, examining each line. He is incredibly young – just as she was, too – and his thin neck seems too easy to snap like a flower stalk. His large bright eyes give him childishness, puffy pink lips – refinement, hair of his head spills the sun. He and she are divided only by one impassable border – he is still breathing. And from this moment on, each breath he decides to enjoy.

When the week comes to an end, from the Count arrives a letter. Hyde almost believes on its tail it is brought by the snow-white dove that's been spinning near the estate since morning, although with mind he understands it is not so. With a graceful stroke of a pen, his master writes it's time for Edward to hurry to get ready, the road to the county is not fast. This letter settles in the blond's throat incessant, sugar-filled laughs; for indeed, the longing for his husband in such a short period has managed to become completely unbearable, spare all his fears and insecurities. And right it is – snickers Lucy, collecting his things in a suitcase – it's no good for the newly-weds to spend so much time in separation! This is absolutely outrageous! You must make up for everything at once! Both the letter and the speedy departure lead to the fact that on the last day, straight afore Count's carriage, to Edward comes his mother. While Emma weaves final lilies into his pearl-embroidered hair, she fusses over his clothes and at the very end takes out a folding wooden box with elaborate carvings from her pocket. In it lies a graceful gentleman's comb – the boy knows enough about it to raise his eyes and exclaim, though muffling his voice so his spouse wouldn't hear:

“But mother! I shall not need that for I love the Count!”

Her smile warms soul, shriving sins and pains.

“I know you do, my dear, can see it in your eyes. And yet,” the old woman softly touches his cheekbone and looks with endless love. “He is a wealthy and powerful man. And you are my only son, Edward. I only wish you to take care of yourself.”

These words are enough for him to accept the gift, carefully placing it in one of the bags. Mother has never been mistaken before, he should trust her and this time. As soon as the box with the comb disappears among other things, over the corner impatiently egresses Jekyll, and the blond's lips are involuntarily touched by a smile. His husband puts a palm with a heavy ruby ring on his and gently leads to the carriage awaiting them, while Emma and Lucy and mother Hyde wave them goodbye.

They set off briskly – following the closing of a door, casting a fleeting glance at his partner and peeping out the window, Edward abruptly feels that once and for all, his whole past has remained far-far away. This thought, in spite of all its fearsomeness, nevertheless carries a certain lightness. In the book of his life begins a new chapter. And he is sure it will not disappoint him.


	2. know i will bleed myself dry

When he awakes, the sun behind the carriage's curtains is already tending to the horizon. The earth colors purple, heather fields flash with rays lost in them. Edward looks at his husband – he didn't close an eye – and catches a smile in return; from it blows north wind, but he ascribes everything to a tedious road. Curving and looping, this very road carries them through the whole county: small but rich, with groves of grapes and pomegranates, with dense forests and glades of fragrant flowers. Every inch of it awakens in Edward sparkling delight – his husband's land now belongs to him, and this land is abundant, wonderful, precious. For be it cold and foggy, with the painstaking work of its inhabitants it bears fruit, blooms, pleases gaze. Living in such a place would be an honor – Hyde thinks, and his cheeks turn pink with happiness, and his eyes stealthily catch the Count's fleeting glance. Although he is used to temperatures higher, all this is the lowest price from those he has already paid; and will pay later. This serpent-thought he drives away right instant, continuing to behold.

And so, after the clatter of hooves of their thoroughbred horses stops, after a loud shout of the coachman echoes off the roadside stones, and after their carriage dreadfully freezes in place; Count Jekyll sweeps open the door and comes out in one sure step. His outstretched hand invites his spouse to do the same, thus, having hesitated for only a second, Hyde accepts this invitation and scrambles out after him. Behind them, servants unload suitcases – in front of them stands a beautiful castle made of black stone, as if it was carved inside a mountain. It is moderate, well-built, and its single spire pierces skies; from that spire twists down a ligature of black vine, getting lost in the withered, black soil below. Nothing grows on miles of possessions of this castle. Snags and roots, not a single hint of garden flowers to which the youth's heart is so accustomed. And this I will survive – he thinks boldly, taking the first step forward. The heel of his boot immediately bogs down in the sand: Edward crushes an amazed breath and passes under an old silver arch (on it the inscription in Latin). Closer and closer to the house – over his head, startled, flies a blanch bird, and there's barking heard from the side, and a tiny dog rushes headlong straight to the hem of his clothes. The little one's fur is white as fresh snow and her smart eyes look with a plea, and the blond's heart tightens the grip of pity. He turns to his husband barely he finally comes up, giving servants the final instructions, and almost just as pleadingly and piteously asks:

“Can we leave this puppy, darling? Please? She will be my faithful companion.”

Words affectionate fly off the tongue strangely, like swallows dreaming of breaking free, and at the same time too fast to recognize. He is lost for a second, drowning in thoughts of what has been said, but husband hurries to dam this stream.

“As you wish.”

His glance turned to the creature expresses only one emotion that is too cleverly elusive. Swiveling to his spouse afterward, it changes with the accuracy of a calibrated clock and a moment later Edward gasps loudly, clutching Count's neck with hands just so as not to fall; grabbing him under knees and back, Jekyll confidently carries the boy through the porch of the house destined to become their family nest. It's almost like he has done it so many times before, yet maybe does the first. His early shock passes and soon Hyde bursts into a joyful laugh and weaves his fingers into the thick hair of his – his! - Henry, and gently touches his lips with a kiss. He does not expect to be embroiled in a passionate tango of mouths, but under pressure surrenders rather quickly; and then he is carefully stood in a hallway that in its magnitude probably surpasses the whole house of Hydes. It is dark. Family portraits, tapestries, still-lives, mirrors adorn walls, underfoot spreads a thin carpet. He runs his fingers along the bends of gargoyle statues. Goes further, step by step, and suddenly notices dazzling gold on the toes of his boots. Throws his head up – that's right, from old age the castle's roof has gotten rotten, and through the large hole in it like thieves or maybe secret adorers make their way rays of the sun. Under their light, his locks and lilies in them flare up and his plain suit turns into clothing from the most expensive fabric, casting blinks into the darkness of the room. Edward smiles sincerely and under that blissful warmth exposes his face. When he finally turns round, cannot find one on the Count.

His husband Henry Jekyll is molded like a statue of Adonis and right now copies it with everything, even immovability. Does tremble not one muscle of his face – in his eyes something Edward has _never_ found there before. Youthful innocence yet, childishness prompt him to ask a light question:

“Is all well?”

And again his Count comes to life, snapping out of his state like a trained animal. Again – visible even from such distance – swells a vein on his neck and flutter the wings of his nose and from his lips flies:

“You do not fit this place.” And then he adds: “There's no garden, no rose petals, save for your cheeks.”

Ah, but I'm able to bear it: thinks Edward, even though his thought is not voiced. No words get uttered anymore – soon the newlyweds set off to inspect, albeit briefly, each floor and their steps roll over the halls like moons. This castle was not made for festivities and balls, it is rather a family estate that stores thousands of years of history. Though stately looking, the floor here creaks under its weight, while the columns crack and groan. Long windows sing under the wind's blows, furniture is covered with thin layers of dust. All the flowers hidden in occasional vases have long dried out, and the bodies of dead flies have stuck to high chandeliers. Those all trivial issues – his spouse assures him – you will have so many servants, I am sure cleaning will not bring you much trouble, or maybe even be of pleasure. In the end – he reminds once more, as if collecting himself from this thought – now you are the lord of the house, my soul. All that you see in front of you is yours. This castle. These lands. I.

Edward feels Jekyll's breathing with neck and distantly notices how _inaudible_ it is. How long are intervals between the first and second exhales, how much it's lost in whispers walking through this strange building. Goosebumps run along his spine up-up-up, and he bites his lip fiercely, and— At the next moment, the tiny dog breaks from her place behind her owners with a loud bark, and hides in the opening of the nearest door; Hyde, crying out, follows her. After him, laughing, steps his husband – they find themselves in a small bright room with sewing machines, old spindles, and covered in sheets statues. All of it suddenly reminds the green-eyed of his home as he steps forward and the dog under his feet sniffs at the stale air, though soon enough huffs and disappears around a corner, eager to explore more of her new possessions.

“Your mother told you like to embroider,” says the Count, his voice a melody. “This studio has been closed for many years, but I'm not feeling sorry opening it for you. True, it misses many materials: pins, buttons, scissors—”

Edward grins – for the latter he holds a specific tenderness. Turning around on heels, he gives his lawful spouse a radiant smile.

“—I'll buy you everything,” Henry assures him. His deep eyes are now hiding a poorly concealed need, that need that upon seeing this room wakes up in young Hyde as if four sun-drenched walls have suddenly given him insane courage. He's the first to take a step forward, the first to lower his eyes in a suggestion. He's sure, he _knows_ his husband is reading all these signals at a time, and yet it is his duty to ask a hasty question: “But shall we go to the bedroom? If only you wish.”  
  
Edward wishes. They stumble over the threshold of their bedchamber and it is indescribably sumptuous, like a painting from the Renaissance era risen before your sight. Carved balcony doors are tightly closed and therefore inside reigns warmth; over the wide bed, which perhaps could fit three people, extends a baldachin of dark silk threads. In the corners here hide more mirrors, and looking at his reflection in them, with tremor – and slightest inner horror – the boy notices the redness of his cheeks, the feverish gleam of his eyes, the exposure of his neck. His lord, the same man who's managed to conquer his heart; the same man about whom compile so many tales and gossips solely for the color of his eyes; the same man who's now unlocking the second silver lock – that man deftly unties the ribbons of Edward's clothes and soon frees him from a shirt. His movements are rash, perhaps for the first time since they've met, but barely raising glance and seeing the pallor of Hyde's skin, the trembling of his arms folded in a protective pose on his chest; he instantly stops and says, no, whispers an apology. How could he be so sloppy in handling the beam of sun that has illuminated his life, handling the fawn that wandered into his house. No, Henry Jekyll dares not to be so rude anymore; and in an instant after these words, his hands, fingers give only caress, under which his young husband soon relaxes. When Edward's body all at once wants more, when his mind reconciles with what's about to happen, he leans forward himself, unfastening Count's vest and bestowing him a completely immodest kiss in the Adam's apple. They fall onto the bed and being cracks and goes with rippling of fragments-splinters once again.

Heat. Softest sheets. Cold anticipation that transforms into a moan falling from his lips. Acute, like a needle, pain; in truth secondary, swept away by tenderness.

The innocence his mother asked to value crumbles like beads of a pearl necklace.

Edward looks into the Count's features and sees in them a freshly clarity. Trembling. Something possibly called love.

He is no maiden to bleed. He'd wish to be. Then the color of his life would equal the color of his lover's eyes.

His hands, as gentle as rain. They search for Jekyll's neck and clasp and press. His husband, his lord laughs hoarsely and falls – with teeth – to Edward's shoulder. Their lovemaking reminds a battle. Their bed – a battlefield.

His sob is lost in the howling wind outside. Seven golden baldachin brushes sway above them.

Sparks and flares and explosions. When they leave, when after remains only a sweet and so new bliss of the body – he notices the petals of crumpled lilies on the pillow. His husband runs his tongue over the knuckles of his palm.

I will do anything you ask for – Edward thinks.

Confident, nevertheless, of his ability to turn these black lands into odorous gardens, Hyde puts on delicate work gloves and takes the necessary instruments. Seeds he receives from mother's letters that with a curious, albeit skillfully hiding this handwriting, inquire about the state of his affairs. However, after some time, Edward bitterly asserts in the words that soil here is dead – one by one wither roses, sunflowers, irises. Their thin, immature buds reach the ground, stalks snap like crunchy bones. A few days more, weather removes any of their signs from the earth's face, and she again becomes widowedly clean and repulsive, scarred. Oddly enough, favors she flower only one. Poppy. Persistently it survives all of her trials, and thus, inspired, the green-eyed boy plants with red petals the entire field in the castle's front; then grants the honor of weaving into his hair. It is like a payment for unperformed bloodshed on the marital bed. Now the setting sun adorns the house with one truly sinister light, and each time looking out the window, Edward shudders at the work of his hands.

It is not the only sinister thing here, but spending time in the arms of his husband, Hyde prefers to carry these thoughts rather far off. The Count – no, no, now he is mostly Henry – cradles the curves of his lips and caresses the skin of his shoulders; their love is perfect like a seashell, like a ruby necklace; Edward prefers not to notice all the sharp angles. His heart dissolves in the bliss of their tenderness when husband carefully, with a question on ready lips touches his thin, tightened with a belt waist, and in his eyes can be read lust and it is too sweet. His darling is of those who, after the first wedding night, hang on their balconies stained sheets as a symbol of victory, Edward is sure. And yet, Jekyll never demands and after each careless movement looks trapped as if he is not used to being gentle. How strange – his young spouse thinks – you've been betrothed so many times before. And again, such thoughts he keeps inside, while copulating only smiling in response from under half-closed eyelashes and thinly sighing like a shot, pierced bird. They engage in this so often that time ceases to exist and thickens like honey. All that remains is hot breath, damp sheets, the noises of their bed. It is bizarre, it is catching, it is defeating them both; no, Edward has never before imagined he would want sex so eagerly as, for some reason he's certain, well as his lover. Their bodies were made for each other. There can be no other explanation.

When, though, their animal rut drops and once more for some time they do become children of men, Jekyll and Hyde spend time in the library and the living room with an old fireplace. The nooks in these displaced quarters breathe ancient legends and the high ceiling flows into a glass dome; at the side rises a lonely but still idoneous piano. Only one key sinks down – sol of the small octave – when pressed making a dry, hissing sound, as though hiding a treacherous snake beneath itself, in any moment ready to lash forward and glide poisonous fangs into an outstretched palm. Time here goes differently and days are replaced by weeks and weeks by one lunar month, while Edward's husband reads him poetry from solid, aged volumes. When they're together, shackles fall. When they're together, the air rings from talking about all the little things in the world, and from the kitchen comes a cozy aroma of baking cakes of honeyed barley. Fleetingly, playfully Hyde trusts in holding out two more silver keys, allowing himself to plunge into the warmth of safeness. Now he is married and most possibly provided for the rest of life; his virginity was given to a man who worships all the words breaking off his tongue; and the tables of their house burst with food that once a season Count sacrifices to the poor. All this is like a fairytale, all this is so _much_ that teachings of own home and innate caution get dulled under the weight of such soothing trifles.

Still, as soon as he remains all alone in this huge castle and Jekyll sets off to solve his most important daily business, something elusively changes. Neither the charm of mosaic floors nor the dope of gilded carved sheep on the walls hide that in its grim grandeur and heavy grip, this place resembles a cage. It perversely reaches out to grab clothes and watches each step with eyes of spiders hiding in the vases. It is oppression of years past and blackened resinous paintings. And he, Edward Hyde, is a child of spring and light and southern, warm wind; a child with the teeth of a wolf that swallowed the sun and became it. He – in a bright yellow-pleated suit with lush embroidered sleeves and a long black bow behind his back, like a canary trapped in a coalmine[*](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/9d/dc/29/9ddc2958de22b992cd905946b1236e8d.jpg) – explores every corner with his faithful companion, an unnamed dog on heels. Windows – wide open. Visiting servants are ordered to wash away the dirt from all the furniture. Old, bulky curtains go to thrash. With all might, he tries to turn miserable gloom into the warmth of a family hearth, despite that darkness isn't planning on retreating and surrendering so easily. Every day of solitude it pours into his ears whispers from the distant, ramshackle wing, imitating a quiet bass of men and subtle chirping of women. Not daring to succumb to any groundless uneasiness, the boy still tries to open the doors from where come sounds that excite his imagination; but discovers them all closed and without a special set of keys not susceptible to any available autopsy. With effort, he turns away and attempts to forget a cluster of black moths which seem to encourage him to reveal this secret. No, no, no. Now he has duties, among them – not to poke his nose in others' business – and indeed, who even cares what keeps this old house when his dear spouse, returning from a job, so gently presses to his chest? When his hands, his body give so much pleasure, and when his words make cheeks turn red and flesh juice with blood? Edward resolutely allows himself to remain blindfolded and repeats like a prayer – I am safe. I am worshiped.

One cloudy morning, he finds in broken stems of poppies same broken body of a dove, and over it – its companion, tilting head in impossible anguish. Arms of his reach out to caress and adorn the perished on its last journey, and then bury it under the sapless, single tree that grows on this ground. An old butler looks at him strangely but dares not utter a single word. The skies above the county close in inconsolable wallowing lasting three days and four nights, during which Edward decides to write to Lanyon. Despite all the feelings seething in his fragile soul, despite an ominous and slightly hysterical “I'm terrified all of this might end with my death”, his letter is succinct and sincere, a signature of golden powder helps finish it and a seal with a rose and a bee affix it together. The answer doesn't have to be waited for long and yet, picking up the envelope from expensive purple paper, the blond knows it shall not satisfy him. Robert doesn't care about ephemeral worryings and fears brought on the wings of dead birds. “What are you terrified of?” he writes and through his handwriting pass accusation and pride. “You know it very well yourself. A monster can be satisfied only with the presence of another.” In pain that pricks his lungs and prevents him from breathing, Hyde throws the letter off and looks downcastly at his own hands, still soft but over time turning pale without the petting of the sun. How could his friend write such things? Is it jealousy and resentment that's completely spun his head and corroded his heart? However, in one thing he is right – stupid frights should be left behind the threshold. From early childhood, the Hydes' only son was taught what kids of his age were forbidden to know so as not to harm their minds. No evil signs, no passions and feels could ever take this from him. Slowly and methodically, he burns Lanyon's letter, holding it above a candle until flames reach his fingers. Then puts the wooden box with elaborate carvings on a bedside table, and in the mirror opposite straightens crimson flowers that peek out of his hair.

The next morning, he kisses his lover on the temple and receives in response such news:

“Urgent affairs call me to distant lands. I will return by the end of the week.”

And Edward – the boy who cannot imagine even a day without his husband, the boy who every evening strains juice from fresh pomegranates to offer him a drink, the boy with four locks wide open – nods and grants a smile. With a curious glance he's looked at; and yet, Henry responds with a similar smile of pale lips and red eyes, eyes that could snare a man's soul, teeth which could eat his heart. This short moment of intimacy exposing their nature cannot be suffered long by either one of them. The Count turns away and looks into an empty fireplace. That doubt is foreign to his young spouse, and thus it is he who carries the sword of cutting the settled silence:

“I will be missing you too strong.”

Not worth it – Jekyll whispers, his hand in a thin pocket of a black suit – not worth it, little bird. Here, look, the keys to all those old rooms you asked of me to open. They're yours. There're odds and ends in them, maybe jewelry, dishes – just order all to tidy up. This house's ancient, millions of secrets. But can you see this key? It's rusty and gilding almost peeled, though use I it infrequently; this key is from my first study, a dusty little room at the very end of the wing. It is the only place I ask you – after all, does a husband have the right to ask? - to not go in. Everything here, the lands and wineglasses belong to you. Everything except that place in which are dusty papers and cheap paintings that'll only tire your sweet gaze.

And with these words, he holds out a chain of keys: large and small, grey and new, bronze, cast. Edward sighs a cloud of steam in this cold monster-castle, in his palms chain is heavy and pulls to the floor.

Sure, darling – says his mouth with a gentle kiss over the other's cheekbone – I am faithful to you. It will be this way forever.

He does open the doors – but before whips away all servants. The first to fall is a strong lock of metal, and following its example comes of oak. Behind both doors – making sullen sounds like grouchy old men – are tapestries, carpets, and linen sewn with thread. They'd please a king; and Edward spends a whole day observing them, refusing to proceed his journey into the womb of the gloomy wing. That primary, inherent to all people caution pulls him back, back into the warmth of familiar rooms, back and away from the mustiness and moths, pointing forward with antennas. The same caution helped Isaac avoid Abraham's blade in that version of the Holy Scripture his family kept. But finally, Hyde takes more steps and this caution is left far behind, hiding among the multicolored yarn and scenes of hunting and oriental patterns. He has never associated himself with the clever young man from Genesis. No.

Rather, dear Edward could be Eve.

When under the pressure of his hand crumbles the third lock, behind it he finds expensive antique vases, full of diamonds to the brim. Such wealth his family could not even imagine, and for a split second the boy gets lost, touching the shiny stones in indecision. Like apples, they flicker in room's darkness and beckon to fondle. But to occupy his curious mind that seeks to sin and reveal the plan of his Lord, they choose for a time short; and soon he's unsealing the fourth, fifth, sixth locks. The keys in the chain come to naught, remains only that, last, with skinned gold paint and scratches, as if someone rubbed it continuously. Now luxuries like Greek plates, pristine hunting rifles, and pearl earrings, Edward bestows only a fleeting glance; his whole nature rushes on. Looking at the small forbidden door made of blackened wood and standing at the very northern window, he lays all the keys on a tiny table nearby. Then goes down and away.

Stone steps tell about the ringing of his high boots to the entire castle, and vaguely, the blond thinks he'll have to put on something much softer. When he gets to his and his beloved's bedchamber, it expects him with peace. As usual here hide the ghosts of twisted ether and past sensations: flashes of passion, moments of tenderness, constellations of laughter. Without them would reign an eternal murk. I owe these ghosts my happiness – Hyde thinks. Under the peering sun, he composes a letter, just as skillfully seals and puts it on the bedside table near to the carved box. On top of the envelope, under the red ribbon bandaging it, he inserts a tiny note; this is to husband, a cry to pass this letter straight to the old, trembling hands of his mother; a cry to wipe her tears after. Outside the wide window can be heard a dove's twitter – hey, red-cheeked fellow, I can deliver your mail right now, get ahead of time, help your cause. But Hyde slams the shutters and reaches for the buttons of his robes.

He loves his husband. When Eve was asked if she loved Adam, she answered sure; for never in the world once known other lips, hands, and seed. Her descendant has been chained in such nescience only in giving his innocence to the man who took it by the laws of higher powers. But world of his is much larger and full of experience left after bloodstained embroidery scissors. World of his is not limited to the walls of this place, a cruel Eden murmuring with thousands of voices passed. In an attempt to decorate its insides with flowers and halls – with joy, he only makes red rot flow out and stain the floor. Edward wants to wear his wedding shirt, but instead puts on black, hiding wrists in embellished with gold thread frill. In hair he weaves asphodel petals, along with a few of other flowers presented by one of the departing maids. Perhaps if he opens, comprehends his husband's abandoned rooms, the desire to fight for the life of this house will blossom in his gut again. Or perhaps he'll find its heart, scarred and barely beating, cold and horrifying. Perhaps Hyde will run away or perhaps he will be saved. But he's made a decision and took the blindfold off his eyes.

He loves his husband. He loves him like a drowning man loves the sea, like a desert exile loves a tempter-demon, like a bird loves a rose thorn piercing it; he lied not, not perverted the truth saying he will be faithful forever. He is aware: husband loves him too, for with own hands he's given the key to most terrible sins, darkest, eldest corners of his soul. Unknowingly, with trust clicked another silver lock. But in young Hyde's head echo the words of his mother, the words she repeated before his nightly sleep, the words that have become his prayer and reassurance and admonition. You are no sacrificial lamb, honey – she used to say firmly, tucking naughty locks of hair behind his ear. This world is huge and cruel, and people living in it divide into hunters and prey. Love in your eyes will so often be taken for weakness, tenderness of your features for an offering. But you must be bold. Be bold, be bold, and prepare your heart, and with it your hands which will snatch you the right of life. Do not be afraid. Do not suffer for the pleasure of others. You can survive anything that falls upon your lot.

It is true. I am no sacrificial lamb and this is no slaughterhouse – Edward repeats to himself, moving beyond the doorstep of the room of solar ghosts.

Playful little dog follows him on heels, but Hyde closes her in the abandoned studio. No reason for her to be at risk just because of an ill-fated master. While he runs high again, taking an oil lamp, holding long hems of trousers with hands, Count's castle beats in incomprehensible agony under the wind's blows. Crumbles the ceiling – following it, thin, like cobwebs, cracks run along the walls. The windows tremble in ballet while the bars on some tear off their hinges in tango. The storm strikes the earth once more and shakes it even this old, seemingly impregnable house. But neither the roar of kitchen utensils falling on the floor, nor railing leaving from under the touch can stop young Hyde on his way to the tree of knowledge. When he overcomes the last inches of his path, high above through the rotten roof peer two lily-white birds. One of them looks down cautiously while the second, unaware of the fears of its companion, flies to the lonely table near the wall of the gloomy wing. Its delicate yellow beak strikes the iron of the chain of keys lying there; however, without spending on an object so useless for it a drop of precious attention, the dove soon rushes lower to the ground's warmth. Its indecisive friend follows it like a discoverer that has not been afraid to shed light. And Edward, having escorted this hopeful picture with eyes, returns to why has he made a journey of his own. That chain of keys for him is a thing way more valuable, and in hands he takes it carefully. In one sharp motion inserts a small key into a small lock and pushes a small door, and inhales the smell of dust into his lungs. Before him dehisces the blackness of a dip, an enter into nothing else than the Underworld; and into this blackness, the thing-unlocker he no longer takes, again laying aside.

The first step of his softest velvet slippers is marked by an absence of any sound. The floor here is bland and polished, despite being moist. Touching the nearest side with fingertips, Edward realizes this room goes rather deep a vertical line and in itself is not a horizontal cabinet; there simply would not be enough space for a table. Yet, with the invaluable help of a flick of a lamp and an incipient flare of a flame, he sees that the walls here are lined with small dressers, cupboards, and shelves. Each exhibits objects of the most grotesque collection Hyde has ever seen and, both disgusted and flurried, he goes forward. Beneath the glass of various shapes, colors, and sizes are encased bones and dried body parts. Nearby also hide tiny test tubes and jars of red liquid, which can sometime be found on the floor, as if someone had spilled it before. Documents-reports of policemen, newspaper clippings about serial killers are stored here too. All this is scattered randomly, without any order understandable to an outsider, and therefore eye quickly grows tired.

But taking more and more steps along that hall of death, the blond notices a change appearing more and more frequently. Then he notices the photographs. The one that follows first shows a young girl of twenty years with her hair tied in a bun. She's dressed simply and the features of her face mask both kindness and fierce inner core. Next to her on the rack stands a transparent box with her pierced, old heart, which has lost the ability to beat years ago. The second girl has richer clothes, a necklace on her neck, eyes large and beautiful. Touching a pellucid and sealed goblet, Edward bounces back, crashing into the shelves behind with a clatter – those eyes have remained here, languishing in the preserving fluid. Swallowing, he still continues his track.

The third has a name under her photo – Ivy Pierson – and it is the primary thing that is noticed. Unlike the other two, she looks very much over forty and at least once widowed. Under, in a lower cabinet with a broken door there are only beads and pearls and emerald earrings; everything left of her. However, she's been very lucky, for the fourth has no face at all. Space reserved for this woman or man does not store anything, save for dead spiders with long legs. Perhaps the memory of them was too unbearable and thus it was uprooted, wrestled from this land. The fifth's name is Paul Allen. He has straight teeth and freckles and somehow reminds him of a much more good-natured version of Robert, and Edward shudders when he finds his jaws pulled out and his callused fingers cut off. Sure he understands who are all these people – it would be difficult not to.

His predecessors, wives and husbands of Count Jekyll look at him with bitterness and censure, mourning a new victim and a confrere in their host of restless souls.

The sixth girl holds an already familiar dog in her arms, looks too much like him; but in the music box next to the tiny frame of her tiny photo, he finds locks of black hair. And name – Bella. After her, shelves end – as if once having been built, in recent weeks they've been torn off in an attempt to break the vicious circle – line – and only one survives. It is empty. Touching it, Hyde experiences a slight thrill, and tension grabs his shoulder. This shelf is for him. For him. For him. There can be no mistake.

On leaden legs and with lips pressed tightly, he leaves the museum of dead flesh and absentmindedly locks the door behind. The nearest window reveals that now outside has begun a snowstorm that centimeter by centimeter covers the ground in front of the castle, burying poppies under itself. This place will not let him go, no, it is too strong and reaches out to the skies. And yet this place is a relic of the past and even all its strength, all the might of spilled blood and broken promises, all the insidiousness of tears cried and hues corroded; all this can never be compared with youth and flowering and courage of the seventh husband. Slowly, he traces his lips with fingers. He is no sacrificial lamb and this is no slaughterhouse.

All the next afternoon, Edward waits and his wait is patient. The storm brings news that his husband returns four days earlier than expected; although, of course, the belief he has moved far left Hyde the previous day. The whole routine of his anticipation comes down to meaningless walks around the castle and playing with his four-pawed companion, which after coming of the dark, he decides to close in the same studio – so she'll be safe again, for in the whole house, this room keeps a reflection of his past under parental roof. Past full of sun bunnies bouncing on beds with white sheets and past in which the aroma of roses contains in every crystal flask of perfume. As if flirting with this same past, he shakes out asphodel from curls and weaves common daisy. Truly black suit, however, changes not. When the bulky clock in the library hits seven o'clock in the evening, the sound of horse hooves arrives from behind the windows, though Edward hurries not to leave his chambers. He once more gives them a studying look, remembering the location of each of the smallest teensy things, and then begins to count. His husband is unpretentious, he is not one of those who, immediately after entering, wait for falling to their feet and a warm dinner on the table. Being not met, he would only rise upstairs himself after some time of undressing. But this cannot be allowed – nor seeing him way too soon. Therefore, Edward, with a belt of blackened ivory, counts; and counts he to the beat of a lullaby from his childhood; and at the end of this count, his eyes open. He doesn't pray. There is no need.

Slowly, he goes down the stairs hands folded in front, and catches Jekyll in the living room. Joyously burst flames in the fireplace, still-lives of pomegranates and grapes look more alive than ever. The man with the smile of a predator, his lawful husband, turns around and— he is already spared of a damp cloak that now hangs on a peg near the hearth and cries melting snow. His short crimson vest is fastened with a snow-white diamond brooch, in pants hide careless folds. More than anything, more than ever in his entire life, Edward wants to snuggle up to his chest and dig into the curve of his neck and find solace in his arms. But he refuses – he's already refused – to be a prey and therefore only nods restrainedly, keeping distance.

“I'm overjoyed you have returned so soon.”

“I can see it,” Henry answers with a note of ridicule, draws a line between them in caricature, pointing to all that empty space that divides their bodies. But this does not abash his spouse as he continues to pour sugar:

“I'd just got ready to wait for you longer, and still cannot get used to much different thought. I have no preparations ready. Do forgive me.”

But in the Count's bloody eyes there's not a hint of reproach. I love you so – Edward thinks. I will love you even with my own heart in your hands. Out-loud, when his man tries to walk the path between them, he says:

“Do not you want to regain the chain of keys you gave me before leaving? It bothered my mind greatly, devoiding of all dreams. I cannot and do not wish to bear such responsibility anymore… with your permission, surely.”

This was to happen sooner-later – but everything in the face of his lover changes to alertness. Readiness before the jump. Perhaps he expects now all the iron and bronze and cast keys will be handed over to him, the smallest bearing a stain of blood. Perhaps in insane hope he silently prays for another, a lost person first turning to God in the face of mad passion and serene love. In any case, the thoughts of his mind do not reflect on his face when in his palm are put clean and smelling of humidity, all seven keys. The only wrinkle on his cheekbone smooths as Jekyll throws them aside and turns to husband; oh, he is ready to say something, admit, inform. But outside, like a crazed animal, howls wind, and despite that it will only be to his detriment, Edward takes the last step towards his decision.

“I opened them all. Doors.”

A pause. By all features of Edward's face his beloved's trying to read something – but is defeated and asks a question; voice strained like a violin string, string ready to snap off at any moment under the inexperienced fingers of a musician. No, the boy has not been mistaken, he wasn't blind: the Count really loves him, loves, loves and drags out time as only lovers can in the face of doubt.

“Them all?”

Hyde nods.

“Them all.” And later, adds: “With the door to your first study.”

Lightning and thunder. The floor under their feet shivers, stone gargoyles by the fireplace bare teeth in a grin. Instantly, the room darkens, despite still playing flame; but even it seems to absorb the atmosphere of terror and slowly fades. Edward's sure he can hear the beat of his heart. He also hears the beat of the heart of this house; yes, he did find it, it calls him now from the aforementioned room, foretastes his reappearance, no longer in the role of a silent witness, no. In the role of a silent participant. The Count loves him, true. But even the most beautiful, sweet to soul sacrifice does not change butcher's nature.

When he moves again, in his eyes only disappointment. His hands reach for a bottle of wine and pour into a glass everything to the last drop. Anymore, Hyde doesn't dare to breathe. Yes, he knows his husband, he knows all the scars of his shoulder blades and the bizarre timbre of his voice when he reads aloud, he knows how strong to make his coffee and how he moans orgasming. He knows him as a map, a constellation, a favorable poem; he knows him as an altar and God, as a prayer (but had his husband been a prayer, then only the one in which a saint asks an angel visiting her at night to open her loins). And yet, all this time from him was hidden that very part, that very ruthlessness and coldness that's surfaced now. His husband contains multitudes, yes. But so does Edward.

“What pity. You too...” and he regrets, and he's already mourning even.

“Too? No. Me above all,” purrs the blond.

His husband looks up. I love you so and you know it – Edward thinks – But this will end with me.

No answer is needed. He spins around and runs into the castle's depths.

His ragged breath bounces off mirrors and paintings and walls, and alerts of all his movements. But Edward Hyde isn't trying to get ahead of time. Turning yourself into a trap is a deliberate thing. First, he's prepared a farewell speech to mother. Of all his small possessions, all he has gives to family and friends; and a Count-husband of his shan't skimp on helping them in times of need. The boy hopes for his honesty and believes in his conscience. To look into the eyes of his old parents that'd barely lost their son and brush aside their pain he'd not be able.

However, dying at such a tender age, Edward isn't planning on either. Light run brings him to the master bedroom, the door to which is already prudently open. His eyes glance over furniture, and oh! - the temptation to lie on the bed in the anticipation of his lover for a second becomes too great. But it is not the battle in which he has a chance to triumph, no-no, for his beloved has already won him on these sheets once and won't be afraid to do it again. Hyde's knees bend at the memory of their first wedding night when his innocence was replaced by heat, but he orders himself to move on; to the bedside table. His fingers cleverly snap off the lid of the carved box with the comb. His fingers split it in half in one gesture and take out a neat blade with engraved roses. Storm raging outside makes steel shine, but Edward must hurry, and thus sneaks to the exit from the room dear to his heart. No, in his childhood was no place for dolls and toy soldiers. All he remembers is the passion of parents to protect their only child from this cruel world where hide shapeshifters with the laughter of gods. Passion that's become his sermon. A set of rules. Passion that's become _his._ Hyde sneaks into the shadow of a pillar opposite the stairwell and soothes pounding heart. Listen. Hear. In the interval between the explosions of thunder, a boot lands onto the first step, sending sound vibrations. His husband is tense and in his hands – what? - but unlike his darling, he thinks not to be silent. His sonorous voice echoes that thunder, but the storm this monster-house pushes away, while his master – doesn't. His words make tremble.

“I did not want to come to this. All of them disobeyed, all of them, but you… You are special.”

More steps. From his position, the boy doesn't move; the murk of this place, without noticing, plays his cards. When his spouse stops in the stair's middle, voice pours again:

“I have never met anyone like you. You with your corn-fair hair, forest eyes, and flowers. You're like...” a sigh. “I said that as soon as you stepped under the roof of this building. You do not deserve such a rotting place. And me.”

In his radiant grandeur, Jekyll emerges to the surface of the second floor like a ghost ship. Moonlight and lightning play on his features, eyes indistinguishable in the dark. With them he slowly walks around all the halls and corners – an excellent hunter bestowing a glance to his possessions, in which has wandered, carelessly, a young roe deer. Every bend of his territory readily whispers all the secrets of its location. But still, the roe is well aware of the rules of this game, a survival game. And still, the hunter understands not that it's come to him voluntarily.

“Yet, before this place I have responsibilities. It needs fresh blood. It needs you.”

But this is merely an excuse. Edward shuts his eyes and draws into his lungs as much air as possible. His husband is in his element, yes, but he's skittering. With every cell of his body realizes – once killing the one who idolized, no longer will be able to remain sane. Own sins and loneliness and heaviness of shed blood will forever bury him under the decaying debris of this house. And he, he hates it so much. The family nest of his ancestors, it – and this land too – swallowed everything bright in them, leaving behind only a void of titles. On long sleepless nights, when Jekyll recalled all the darkness that surrounded his childhood, his only support was Hyde. And to destroy him means to cut the last red thread, connecting him with mind.

His husband's skittering. His husband begins to speak again, and in this of his monologues seeps so much desperately concealed fear of the inevitable, the blond shudders. I loved – says the Count – my first wife. She had the purest… heart. Her death was an accident. (The floorboards under his boots creak unobtrusively; Edward's slippers make no sound). But the second disobeyed me, entering that old room. She accused me of being a monster, a murderer of innocent women and young men of the capital. She discovered my thirst and could not come to terms with it. I am ready to admit that third wife – Ivy – I needed only for the sake of money; I was going to acquire a new enterprise and her fortune helped me. Until now, to her I am grateful. (In one of his hands hides a wide kitchen cleaver; the blade of the green-eyed is no match, but he doesn't allow himself at least a fraction of panic). Fourth… let's not we talk about him. And oh the fifth, Paul, came from commoners; but I loved him for perky voice and brilliance of mind; it'd been the color of my many months. And the sixth, Bella, still a young girl who never wanted I to hurt. It just so happened. I… (His speech culminates).

In the end, he leaves Edward with a question and this question is like poison behind cheeks. What, darling, will you take from me? One of the ribs, white and thin? But I am no Adam. Perhaps then fingers that drew your name on bare skin? Or would it be my tongue that caressed your manhood? My eyes and lips, all of my insides, blood – they’re yours already, no need to usurp. What can you take from someone who's dedicated all of himself to you? May you know little of my past, you are no better; but now we're in the endgame, no honor more to hide.

With a suspicious foreboding, the Count approaches the place of his concealment, and at the last moment Hyde darts sideways in an attempt to avoid a collision. But the grip on his wrist pulls him back, into the fierce embrace of his husband. The boy cries, struggling, under Henry's prayers to remain silent, as if ghosts living here can hear and rush to the new victim's aid. Oh yes, here it is full of them, but how many are there restless souls in the streets and pubs, in all places visited by Count, of all the girls and boys and others that couldn't satisfy his appetite? Feeling a weakening of control, Edward spins around and deftly plunges the blade into his husband's armpit. Pulls out. Jekyll's scream reverberates against the walls, and without waiting for the hunter to come to senses, the roe runs off, deeper into the bowels of the castle. Boiling, shuddering, gnawing at themselves, they take it inside like a starving mythical beast.

He runs and runs, blood dripping from the blade in hand like a sign of inexcusable crime, violation of the sacred bonds of marriage. All halls merge into one under the brush of a mad painter. Hyde crosses the old wing without giving the door with a terrifying secret not one extra peek; and descends down the other stairs. From what he's done, his thoughts and feelings tangle, and so he wakes up only tripping over the last step and collapsing. Steel clangs against the stone, his knees hits pain. Hastily, he jumps back up and, grabbing the precious weapon's hilt, wipes it over his clothes. No more signs. His husband follows here, to the sound so clearly swept through the entire castle, and his pace is now not so sure but because of this barely detectable. Behind himself he leaves a path of red; it seeps through every rock. Anticipation rings in the air. Anticipation rings in the depths of young Hyde. He lurks into a room and with a wave of hand extinguishes table candles in it. In the reign of darkness, visions of distant, gone age come to him, and he presses the tip of the blade to chest to feel his heart. He is patient and will wait for his love.

It's come his time to speak; despite though all the words sound only in his head. Oh, if only you – he says – would know about my years lived, darling. Perhaps then you'd not consider me a worthy victim for your altar. Perhaps I should have let Robert tell you all. Perhaps I should have told myself, on one of our evenings. Now your ignorance saves my life, but when everything ends, if everything ends I will open your charming eyes and unfasten my last, seventh lock. (The sixth falls while the Count's reaching ground, finding support with his wounded arm, vulnerable). I will tell you, I swear: once I was even younger, a man with eyes made of ice courted me. He was considerate, kind, patient; at least that's what I thought. My mother expected that in generosity, he'd make me a proposal, although by law we'd have to wait for an official marriage one more year. But he had other plans. (At the room's threshold, husband stops suddenly, listens, but takes a step inside). He didn't want my heart, my love, devotion. He only wanted to tear off the flower of my virginity. He won the moment when I was alone in a studio similar to the one you granted me: spindles and machine-tools and cloths. He tricked me, made me laugh; I didn't suspect anything. And when I did, there was not a single soul nearby, a single help. No, not a single help except my mother's dear embroidery scissors in the form of a crane, which I too loved to use. I took them. And and and— (His thinking stops).

A millimeter from him sounds Jekyll's breath, lightning flashes outside, filling the room with gold, and Edward dashes forward. His actions are desperate yet verified – his weapon digs into the Count's palm and butcher's knife falls out of it. This act of courage, of prey attacking the predator, knocks his husband off his mind and feet, and he sinks on knees for a second; this time is more than enough for his lover to press the blade cut with roses to his throat. In spectral glow, everything in him – daisies in hair and brightness of the eyes – seems spellful. Jekyll observes the lines of Hyde's face for a long, long time before finally bowing his head lower; a trickle of blood instantly rushes across his chin. He lost.

I won – sparkles an intoxicating thought in Edward's head; with a toe of his foot, he throws the worthless cleaver away and looks at the defeated. He won, just like before, ripping the neck of one who tried to take what belonged fully to him. What he's given to the man at his knees, what he handed over to a killer.

“What now?” that killer asks, bleeding carmine and wincing. The pain of defeat in his features replaces by the pain of body; it's only now it's catching up with head and trembles in fever.

In addition, comes relief. With a certain sadistic curiosity, young Hyde watches it washing off his husband like a wave – now he no longer holds power over anything and capable of none, too. Whether the boy wills to destroy the monster or spare his life, for a tired mind it matters no longer. Accepting the helplessness of its owner, the last descendant of his kind, the castle calms down right after: no longer beats its heart, no longer shake walls. Only silence and raindrops drumming over windows and balconies, only emptiness and oppression.

Now – thinks Edward in silence – I'll put you on a chain, my darling. From silver; and tie it to the last lock of my heart. You will no longer run away, your knife will not be sharpened. Eat and drink from me alone. I will become your new refuge, the corpse of this decaying building we will leave. And if your instincts once waken while I sleep, every night I'll take a sip of poison to rouse just to sink into your lips with an envenomed kiss and take the two of us to another world. These are my rules. And you will follow them.

For all to hear he says:

“I am your last husband.”

And his blade moves.

Warm sunlight streams through wide-open shutters, and the heads of poppy flowers affably sparkle with raindrops. Edward covers his eyes and breathes in clean, cool air. His suitcase has been assembled – golden latches on pastel fabric and handles in the form of outlandish insects. This morning he's already managed to say goodbye to each – without exception – room of this castle, and now is looking forward to parting with it. At his feet in white boots spins the little dog; it is certainly a time to give her a name, but as luck would have it, nothing comes to mind. Pretty soon, the green-eyed young man gives up and strokes her pelt, and then fixes his hair in the mirror. No flowers for today. The newly put-together gentleman's comb hides in its rightful box, all traces of last night removed from it. In some places, however, both the floor and stairs remain tarnished, but with all the responsibility given to him, Edward decides it is no longer his concern. He has asked the servants to come only tomorrow and cover all the walls and furniture with sheets – no one else will live here. Everything stored behind the tiny door opening with the tiny key at the farthest end of the gloomy wing, he burned to the ground, so now there is only smell of smoke. Having finished with all final worries, he receives news that Robert and Emma are visiting – and he is inexplicably surprised.

Has anything happened? Oh, just be it not with his family.

“Are you sure?”

Sneaking up so inaudibly I will wean you – Hyde thinks, shuddering and turning to his husband. The latter has managed to find a little blush for his cheeks, even though parts of his body are still tightly bandaged, eyes tired. His farewell to this place goes on much more pitiable, but despite it, the Count is glad. This gladness spun on his tongue in a thousand words of gratitude when yesterday, at the exhaustion of their bodies, they finally collapsed onto the bed. And once again the lion lay down with the lamb, only now go see who is who. Edward rises and approaches his beloved, gently running hands over his face, anxiously eying his armpit and palm and touching for a scar on his throat. Is this the price hunters pay to end their hunt?

“Yes, indeed. After all, you did say you can manage the county from afar. We leave.”

He doesn't know. But doesn't console himself with hope that with his victory, Jekyll's nature will somehow change, betray itself. No, no, of course not. After he took the life of his first wooer, young Hyde felt something like that himself. An awakening of thirst, need. He kissed its forehead and pushed it deep-deep inside, while around whirled rumors; his deed attributed to self-defense, which it was. His purity and innocence got forgiven and forgotten by all. No one was ever destined to learn that this entire time in his gut blossomed something that could put killers on their knees. He's lived with it for so long. And he'll teach Henry to live with it, too.

Husband nods – behind him a black suitcase of alligator skin. A loud ringing of a bell is heard from the main entrance and the dog rushes at it with a bark, and Edward follows her with a laugh. When his arms pull wide gates, worried faces of his friends loom behind them. Darling Robert is still quite detached as if there is no end to his resentment, but in the wrinkles around his mouth, one can easily see worry. Emma looks around the main hall and shivers, her crystal eyes on the verge of tears. The first questions pour - “terrified this might end with my death”, what does it mean?! Where are you moving and what has happened? Tell us, is something troubling you? On all of them, the boy answers with a patient smile – oh, his friends are wonderful people, but with the blessing of immortality he’s been gifted only after the wedding night. Since then, days have changed and nights have passed, and once again in the past, Edward would not have chosen to write that letter to Lanyon, although he remembers what prompted it. But now?

Now he just shakes his head.

“It is all fine. What do you want? My husband has done me no harm.”

And soon their suspicions drain like glasses of wine, and conversation moves on to an early departure. Perhaps to the south to the sea – the blond laughs – perhaps to a village on the north. Or maybe we will head to the capital, no, all of those murders I fear not.

From above, his husband watches their talk, and Edward catches his gaze. Their life is changing again, a new chapter under new ink and a new pen. Now they are a full-fledged family and will remain it for all ages. In the afternoon, they'll set off, and then no deaths, only years of training. This is _more_ , and this is not at all what Edward asked for; but he is a son of honest and hardworking people, and therefore to refuse the pending work is not in his character.

I love you – he whispers, barely parting lips.

Henry Jekyll smirks. Love is so fragile – he once harrumphed while reading in the library, his husband sitting on his lap. No, I do not have such a superficial feeling for you. Here is my bloodied heart, all of the keys, my teeth – I pulled them out for you. Take and rule.

I do not love you, my Edward. I capitulate to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come haunt me on [tumblr](https://moon-hedgehog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/moon_hedgehog) ♡


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